Fallen Flowers
by Storms-Are-My-Nature
Summary: Flowers are a bit like life, I think. And they're my fallen flowers. J/I


**Fallen Flowers**

**Just a short, (very!) AU fic… I haven't a clue where it came from, to be honest! :-P **

**Disclaimer: Nope, don't own… but the other character that you won't recognise I **_**do**_** own.**

Flowers are a bit like life. It's a thought I have often pondered on, in my many years of life, but it's only now that I really understand what it means.

I sit on the low branch of the ash tree, my greatcoat wrapped tightly around me and the breeze ruffling my hair. It isn't often that I get to escape here; my eyes are flitting around the earthy-warm forest, trying to drink in every ale-coloured shaft of light as it shifts contentedly, the wind a soft sigh of satisfaction.

All around me, the leaves are falling like russet stars, spiralling gracefully to rest, like a whisper on the forest floor. I cannot hear any animals or birds. I tip my head back and stare up at the milky-blue sky, watching the clouds scudding past. I wonder, if I stayed here forever, would I too heal? Or would I become like a stagnant pond, unmoving and unchanging?

The graveyard isn't far from here. I come whenever I can, to clean their graves and to honour their memory, quietly and without ceremony, just me and them. Just as he would have liked it.

I slide off the branch, my feet landing with a muted thump on the carpet of dry leaves. I brush my dark grey coat down with a quick, brisk movement – more from habit than necessity – and set off down the path.

A thought occurs to me. I stop; turning back, I bend to pick up a star-shaped leaf, the rusty colour almost the exact shade of her hair. Almost, but not quite… I think. I'm not sure. I pretend that it is.

I caress the curve of its shape with my fingertip, a wash of memories from long past saddening me for a moment, and then I carry on my way.

At the cemetery gate-post – the stone weather-beaten and cracked, moss clinging to its crumbling sides like a green woolly sweater – I pause again and smile at the clump of vivid little periwinkles. I swoop, deftly plucking the bluest from its stem – I pretend to myself that it's the colour of his eyes, though I'm not quite certain any more – and push open the gate.

It squeaks; I remember the time the white mice she was so fond of got into the biscuit tin on Christmas day. He went absolutely ballistic, and I had to take them both out to the theatre to make the peace once more. I smile at the memory, but am broken from my reverie by the sight of two gleaming marble headstones, side-by-side under the bare-limbed cherry-tree.

I kneel to place the star-shaped leaf, the colour of which I pretend I remember her hair as being, down by the bunch of lilies in front of her stone. Carefully, fearful of damaging the fragile blossom, I lay the periwinkle next to the roses by his.

Before I stand up, I brush my fingertips over the names engraved into the cold stone, a surge of longing swelling my throat shut.

_Ianto Harkness-Jones  
Loving partner and wonderful dad  
Gave his life so that his daughter  
could live  
R.I.P._

_Coralinne Harkness-Jones  
Fun-loving and generous  
Died peacefully in her sleep, aged 19  
Loved dearly – sleep sweet, Cory_

"My fallen flowers," I murmur through the tears clouding my vision. "It's already been so long."

"Jack?"

I turn around, smiling sadly at the tall man in the flamboyant coat, who leans on the gatepost. His sandy-blonde fringe flops into his eyes and his freckles hide his great age. I'm still not used to this new face. "It's hard, Doctor."

"I know." He pushes the gate open, ignoring the squeal. "But it'll get better."

"Two-hundred years," I remind him, straightening up and sticking my hands in my pockets. "I don't want to forget any more."

"You'll forget that you've forgotten," he said. "I can always take you back, to remind you."

"What about when you're gone too?" I ask, looking back at the gravestones. In my mind's eye, a single blossom falls from the cherry-tree – although I know it is bare – and settles between the graves.

"You'll carry on."

"I don't think I can. Not after this," I unconsciously echo Gwen's words after Tosh and Owen. "Love hurts."

"But you wouldn't live in winter just so that you'd never have to see the death of spring," the Doctor says. "Life's like a flower."

I smile through the tears that slip down my cheeks. "They're my fallen flowers."

**Okay… not sure where that came from… all the same, reviews make me feel better – and encourage me to work harder at beating the writer's block currently on Splash!**

**I won't bother you with the equation this time… I'm pretty sure you all know it by now. ;-)**


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